


come be lonely with me

by amaiyo



Series: to be worthy [1]
Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma, First Meetings, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Gangs, Pining Ash Lynx, Sad with a Happy Ending, briefly mentioned but a lot of introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 21:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30095070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaiyo/pseuds/amaiyo
Summary: “Oh,” a soft voice to his right startled. Ash drew in a sharp breath as he turned to catch the silhouette of a man at the end of the aisle, backlit by the window and washed in the same radiant auburn of the setting sun that cast the stacks so warmly. “Sorry.”|| Ash Lynx meets Eiji Okumura on the fifth floor of the university library on a Saturday evening. It's a disaster. ||
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji
Series: to be worthy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2214453
Comments: 13
Kudos: 81





	come be lonely with me

**Author's Note:**

> hey have some garbage because i disappeared forever and i have a lot on my mind *throws this and crawls back into the gremlin den*
> 
> no beta as usual because i'm destined to be miserable so i'm sure there's a hundred and one mistakes, sorry for that
> 
> songs i listened to while writing;  
> "Visions of Gideon" by Sufjan Stevens  
> "Maybe We're Meant to Be Alone" by Bad Suns  
> "This Side of Paradise" by Coyote Theory  
> "Lover of Mine" by 5SOS

The autumn afternoon was chill but the sunlight was blinding and golden as it slanted through the high windows and caught on the edges of the stacks.

Time always seemed to move strangely there, on the highest floor of the library during a weekend lull. The only others Ash had come across was the librarian on the first floor and a handful of students scattered about the various study sections on the lower floors; a sharp contrast to the overwhelming buzz and scramble of the week.

It was Ash’s favourite part of the day. The week, even—hiding away here, his own little sanctuary. A haven to disappear to when everything became too much. The shelves were quiet. The texts didn’t pass judgements or have expectations. He could simply exist.

Even on a good day the fifth floor almost never saw a soul—but on the weekends it was positively desolate. The lack of foot-traffic put Ash at ease, and he allowed himself to sink to the floor right in the middle of the aisle with his philosophy textbook in his lap. He relaxed back against the opposite shelf and straightened his glasses where they had slid down his nose.

The air was welcoming, somehow charged with the scent of hundreds of years of research and academia. It all hummed beneath his skin as he thumbed through the index.

He couldn’t possibly be more content.

Time passed; minutes or hours, he didn’t keep track. But the angle of the sun had changed, lighting up the shelves in a dazzling orange glow that only served to remind Ash that he needed to depart soon.

He ran the pad of one finger over the waterfall of pages in his lap, imagining the microscopic edges, and wished otherwise.

“Oh,” a soft voice to his right startled. Ash drew in a sharp breath as he turned to catch the silhouette of a man at the end of the aisle, backlit by the window and washed in the same radiant auburn of the setting sun that cast the stacks so warmly. “Sorry.”

Ash was suddenly very aware of the way he was sprawled across the aisle—most likely in the other man’s way. He self-consciously folded his legs, trying to draw back against the shelf at this back, and fidgeted with the silver rim of his glasses. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone else was up here,” Ash admitted. How strange he must look, lounging on the floor like a child in a university library as if he had no manners.

The man shuffled closer, his movements hesitant, and as the shadows shifted with him Ash could finally make out his face.

He was handsome, and that alone fed Ash’s embarrassment to be caught out so awkwardly. Dark waves of hair with eyes that made something in Ash’s chest twist— kind, that was the word that came to mind. They were soft and dark and seemed to shine.

The stranger crinkled a small blue note in his hands, shoulders hiking up to his ears. “No, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m just…” His eyes slide away, flickering over the full bookshelves, weary. His accent is melodic and his words weave in a way that Ash finds soothing.

“Lost?” Ash asks, head tilting.

The assumption falls heavy between them and the man’s eyes snap back to him—now wide, giving way to a sheepish grin. Ash cannot stop himself from finding the expression charming.

“Just a bit,” the stranger smiles wider.

It is somehow one of the most beautiful things Ash has ever seen. He feels his heart stutter to witness it, this strange man cast in autumn glow, and Ash feels desperately drawn to the way he rubs the side of his neck and watches Ash from under his dark fan of eyelashes.

Ash clears his throat, hoping to dispel whatever strange thing has settled between them. “I can help,” he offers—but it escapes him as no more than a murmur. Somehow still too loud for the sanctimonious quiet of the top floor.

“Really?” The man chirps, rocking up on the toes of his sneakers. The paper in his hand crinkles again, a well-worn post-it note clutched tightly between his elegant fingers.

Ash nods to it. “What are you looking for?”

The man steps closer a little too quickly and nearly trips. When he rights himself he is pink-cheeked and his eyes seek out something just over Ash’s shoulder as he hands him his note.

A book title and author; less simple of a find without its correlating number but Ash knew it well enough from the hundreds of hours he had spent gazing at the shining titles and imagining there was no world beyond this. He stands, tucking his book back on the shelf as he knows he shouldn’t, and gestures for the man to follow him.

They pass a dozen or more towering shelves, each swathed in that dazzling evening light. The scent of ink and aged paper lingers in the still air and the floorboards creak under their feet. Ash is sensitive to the gentle presence trailing closely behind him and swallows at the feeling of those dark brown eyes on his back.

They enter the history section, the furthest corner of the fifth floor—darker and more private than the others, usually only haunted by despairing history majors and grad students. Ash was painfully familiar with its intimidating catalogue. It takes him only moments to locate the title scrawled on the note.

The man stares in awe as Ash pulls the thick tome from the shelf and holds it out to him with a flourish. The attention makes him feel warm all over, reveling in it. “Voila,” he sing-songs.

The man takes the book and their hands brush; Ash is lost for a moment, his bravado falling away as he stares at the man’s sun-kissed skin against his own. Caught in the seconds where the warmth of their bodies meet and his heart stutters for the first time.

He can’t place the feeling. An anxiety, an urgency, a rush of blood just beneath the surface the leaves him winded before he can trace it.

When he looks up however the man himself is pink-cheeked, gaze carefully tilted away and Ash thinks that perhaps he isn’t completely fanciful.

“Embarrassing,” the stranger sighs, shoulders slumping and mouth twisting into something reminiscent of a pout. “Sometimes I have trouble reading the signs.”

“No harm, I’ve simply read this one before,” Ash murmurs, mostly truthful, but the man looks downtrodden at his own plight. Ash’s heart aches thinking he’s helped place the shamed look on this man’s face. “I’m happy to help.”

Ash is nearly bowled over by how much he means it; he feels earnest joy at having been useful, having forsaken his last peaceful moments of the day to assist this stranger. 

He is taken, however, by the smile the man turns on him then; wide and earnest, tucked on the tails of a nervous giggle. His eyes crinkle at the corners and Ash notices the shadow of a dimple at the corner of his mouth.

Ash’s heart pounds at the sight; this is right, it sings. He doesn’t know anything about this man, this urge is completely irrational and ridiculous and yet Ash knows if he lets this man leave right now he will regret it.

The ache sinks its claws beneath his clavicle, burns through his veins white-hot, and his hands shake with the slightest of tremors as he holds one out to the beautiful stranger that has left him baffled. “My name is Ash.”

The man smiles again, that radiant thing, and tucks the book under one arm to clasp Ash’s offered hand. His grip is firm and rough with callouses from stories untold—stories Ash wishes to unravel and learn.

“Eiji.” It’s all he offers, but it’s enough for Ash to smile and despair; it shudders through him like a downpour.

“That’s lovely,” he murmurs—and then freezes as the reality falls heavy like a knife. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Eiji’s eyes are so wide and his hand is still warm in his and Ash would beg every deity to never have to let go.

How cruel for a stranger to ruin him so easily for nothing at all.

Ash withdraws his hand as if it had brushed open flame, terrifyingly aware that he’s held on for longer than strictly proper. 

He begins to apologize, stutters, and then starts again—for holding his hand, for being so forward and strange. Ash can’t fathom. Maybe all of it. He feels sick with the heat that rushes to his face. Dizzy with his own embarrassment. He finds he doesn’t know what to do with his hands; he fidgets with his glasses, an old habit he cannot seem to break, and stares at the green carpet stretching beneath their feet as words fail him. 

The shade looks sickly in this light. Ash feels like a kindred spirit. 

In the end, with Eiji watching him floundering in a silence Ash cannot decipher, the best he can manage is, “I hope to see you around,” before he flees.

He takes the steps two at a time, one hand clutched desperately in the scratchy fabric of his overcoat, right against his heart. As if he could possibly quell its thundering race by sheer will.

The sweet older woman behind the checkout desk calls after Ash as he hits the first floor nearly running. He tosses a harried goodnight behind him as he shoulders the door open, but he dare not look back. He feels wild, run through—an animal running from shadows.

He takes the subway home and spends the entire half hour agonizing over his embarrassing missteps. He never spoke without thinking, never blurted out his drifting thoughts. He was calm, collected, level-headed and logical.

What a terrible time to break his own patterns.

The image of Eiji’s wide, dark eyes as he watched Ash practically combust flashes through Ash’s mind and his cheeks warm all over again. He curls inward, groaning, palms pressed to his cheeks as if he could ward off his own mortification.

The girl across the aisle with the walkman stares as if he might be deranged. He supposes he can’t blame her. He’s not entirely sure that such an assessment would be wrong.

-

Monday nights weren’t quite the relaxing hideaway Ash delighted in; the library buzzed with the scramble of students running late for one assignment or another, scribbling away at their tables and murmuring over their scatter of notes. The swell of patrons puts Ash on edge and he finds himself perched in the dreaded history section of the fifth floor at a table for two, occupied by one.

He had thought, fleetingly and perhaps stupidly, that if he forced himself to face the site of his own inelegant blunder he could move on—perhaps the pain would dull from a sting to a phantom ache and allow him to put his embarrassment to rest.

The chatter of fellow students rises from the lower floors, making it near impossible to sink back into his textbook as normal. He finds himself restless, unsettled, as he eyes the dreaded section where he had let his heart fall from his mouth and assure that Eiji would never speak to him again.

He could scream with the way regret sat under his skin, disquieted.

“I was hoping to find you here.”

As if summoned by his forlorn thoughts Eiji emerges from the stacks, crossing to Ash’s side with long-legged strides. Ash freezes, stunned, and watches Eiji smile with a pain in his chest that he cannot explain.

His dark blue peacoat is carefully draped over one arm, the shirt beneath giving Ash a distracting view of his broad shoulders. Ash’s mind is painfully—blissfully—blank. Eiji’s slender hands fidget with the book clutched between them, the muscle of his forearms shifting with the movement, and Ash realizes that perhaps he should say something in return.

“Hello,” he murmurs. It comes out soft and does nothing to hide his surprise.

Eiji’s smile splits his handsome face wide, brighter than the afternoon sunlight. “I didn’t thank you. Before. You were a big help the other day.”

“It’s no problem, really.”

Coming up with something of substance, something interesting to appear a little less of a floundering idiot, was proving to be quite the problem. The moment stretches out just a second too long and Ash feels his soul wither as Eiji’s expression wilts to something more contemplative, more unsure.

Slowly, the tip of the other man’s ears pinkens and his dark gaze falls to the table Ash had commandeered. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

Surely he was dreaming; it was an impossible thought, that this man had sought him out and stood here now, asking to share his time and space even after Ash had shown that he was socially inept and ridiculous, two-fold. That Eiji looks at him and sees _something_. Just maybe.

Ash scrambles to rearrange his books and gestures to the seat across from him. He is aware that he most likely appears frantic and pathetic. He wishes he could say it wasn’t an accurate description—but this man makes him feel as if he was being graced by something ethereal, something he could so easily lose and regret. As if there were stakes to be wary of.

Eiji sinks into the seat and drops his bag to the floor. Ash’s heart eases to think that maybe Eiji was feeling as equally breathless and confused. Lost. Maybe he wasn’t the only one affected by the way the sun painted the walls in gold and highlighted his companions’ hair.

“Sorry for the intrusion.”

“It’s no intrusion. Really.”

“What are you reading?” Eiji asks, looking eager as he eyes the book in Ash’s hand. He lifts it to show Eiji the minimalist, worn cover rented from the bookstore.

“Philosophy. I have a paper for a class project, but I’ve been putting it off. I don’t know what to write,” Ash admits.

Eiji hums, propping his chin on a fist. His eyes are fixed to Ash’s face and Ash prays he does not fidget or flush under the attention. “What is the topic?”

“The value of pain and human life. How it affects us. Whether it’s worthwhile.” It was a touchy subject; one that left Ash feeling dizzy and nihilistic in his greyed outlook of the world.

“Sounds like a heavy topic.”

“It’s been a lot—a lot to think about, honestly.”

“And what do you think?”

“Me?” Ash feels his glasses slip as he tilts his head. Eiji’s eyes track his hand as he rights them.

“Yes. What do you think about pain and human life?”

Which was precisely the problem; Ash was unsure what he felt, or thought, or believed. He did not find he had much of substance to offer the conversation. He himself had endured in his own life, as many had, but what did that truly mean, in the end? Were those trials worth what he gained? Was there a balance tipped in his favour for his strife?

He was quick to call it all fanciful bullshit by a bunch of men who had never experienced true devastation or despair, but that simplicity didn’t make for a good assignment. He found himself unable to argue one way or another.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, unwilling to delve into his personal history. Most days he could barely parse through his own thoughts—he couldn’t even begin to unravel them for a stranger, or to argue a point to his professor. 

Eiji simply nods as if he had expected such an answer. 

“What about you?” Ash tries, genuinely curious.

The silence stretches on a moment, and then, “I think it makes it worth it.”

“What makes you think that?” Ash feels desperate to know but Eiji simply smiles and sets Ash aflame again.

“Personal experience.”

The hours melt into the autumn evening and eventual nightfall with Eiji’s careful eyes on him. Ash learns his laugh, the way he sometimes touches careful fingers to his right ear as he puzzles through translating his thoughts, how he wrinkles his nose when he finds Ash especially strange. 

Within hours Ash feels he has known this man for a lifetime, or a dozen over. As if eons passed between them with the burdens they don’t speak of in one another’s presence.

He’s from Japan, he has a younger sister and loving parents and a dog all waiting for him in Izumo. He speaks of them fondly but doesn’t elaborate on why he doesn’t return. Ash does not pry in the same way Eiji does not pry when Ash passes over gaps in his own history. 

Ash catches sight of the time on the far wall, remembers his own family expecting him, and thinks he understands what neither of them will say. You don’t need to point out every chip and crack in the walkway to be aware of their presence.

Time with Eiji feels like what Ash has always imagined peace to be; the simple kindness and ease of a stranger that doesn’t try to pluck at all the tangled strings of his heart. That just lets him be and accepts the inadequacies for where they lie.

It’s both so much and not enough and it pains him, but Ash gathers his half-finished musings and bids Eiji farewell. He dare not hope for a second stroke of luck.

-

Eiji returns the next day, and the day after.

They never discuss where or when, or the strangeness of ease that they find in one another. If there was a line to be crossed, they ignore it completely and wholly. 

Ash watches the way Eiji’s warm fingers linger against his as they trade a pencil and thinks, which would be more terrifying? To know the universe is boundless or to watch the approach of the end?

On a Wednesday Eiji’s sneaker bumps against Ash’s own under what he’s come to think of as their table in their section, on their floor. Ash jolts but Eiji doesn’t move away. He’s a studious sight, bent over his notes and highlighting a line of text. But Ash can see the tremor where he clutches the pen too tightly, the way his concentration is too perfect to not be crafted.

There’s a freckle on Eiji’s collarbone, just where his shirt hangs a little too low when he slumps over his work in frustration. Ash himself is frustrated that all he can concentrate on for the entirety of the afternoon is that damned spec of melanin that taunts him as it flickers in and out of sight. 

He returns home with his scribbled philosophy notes and unfinished essay, aware he should feel some sense of shame, but he burns in ways he can’t explain away with simple exasperation.

On a Saturday they sprawl in the same aisle Eiji had first found him; close enough Ash can feel the heat of him through his sweater. Or perhaps that is just Ash, burning from the inside out as he focuses a little too closely on the way Eiji stretches his long legs across the walkway.

“English is ridiculous,” Eiji huffs. He’s a sight, striped down to his white t-shirt and glowering at the textbook in his lap. Ash stares at his fine-boned hands against the hardcover as he answers.

“Agreed. Can I help?”

He knew what it was—an invitation, not so simple or innocent but packaged to be ignored. _Can I can I can I—_

Eiji shifts and the distance between them dissipates; just the heat of his side and the dull awareness where his elbow presses a little too hard into Ash’s ribs. He can feel the brush of dark waves against his cheek, soft and brilliant under the light from the window. It’s awkward and perfect.

Eiji makes him want to be bold; Ash makes as if to turn towards his companion but simply presses them together from hip to thigh. An intimate angle, completely unnecessary, and carefully purposeful. He decides to set his shame aside for later assessment.

Ash’s heart feels fit to burst with the heat between them, the weight of the air that makes his hair stand on end. He counts his breaths and thinks Eiji might be doing the same.

Eiji points to a word in the centre of the page and Ash hums, “Kismet. Fate.”

The dark-haired student raises his head, eyes staring into Ash’s as he tests the word himself. It rolls over his accent, his mouth carefully shaping the sounds, and Ash is overwhelmed with the need to drink the consonants from his lips like a man deprived.

Neither of them move and for a moment Ash thinks fate might be in his favour. Eiji’s eyes drop but don’t leave Ash’s face, studying the nervous set of Ash’s mouth. Ash watches the way Eiji’s lips quirk up and wonders what his grin tastes like.

A floorboard creaks nearby and they both breathe deep as if breaking through the icy surface of the Genesee; too close, in body and mind. They could be seen. They weren’t alone. It’s too uncalculated of a risk.

Ash scrambles to stand before holding a hand out to help Eiji to his feet. Eiji stares for a moment, flushed, and Ash thinks again that he is the most beautiful thing he has ever been graced by.

Eiji takes his hand and it’s just as rough and perfect as the first time.

He wants to draw him in by that hand, press the writhing mess of feelings he’s been harboring into Eiji’s kind mouth because he feels like it will destroy him from the inside out if he can’t. He wants to know that Eiji is as affected, is as sure of this wild thing blooming between them.

Someone sneezes and a book a few aisles over thuds to the carpet.

Ash releases Eiji’s hand, and tries to smile. Tries to pretend that his world hasn’t been shifted—that he hasn’t been both transformed and denied, that it isn’t killing him to watch Eiji smile and laugh because wasn’t this all just a little ridiculous?

Ash is driven to distraction as Eiji taps his pencil, and nudges Ash’s foot under the table, and smiles over the corner of his own book. Ash stares at the tauntingly blank lines of his philosophy essay and thinks of Eiji’s hands, delicate and wide and strong.

Ash’s fingertips smear his ink and when Eiji laughs he imagines pressing the dark liquid against his perfect face by capturing his jaw and drinking that otherworldly giggle straight from its source.

Ash returns home that night and imagines that he had been braver. That he had better luck or better timing. Imagines Eiji would be as soft as he looked, that even in intimacy he would chatter and laugh and draw the more gentler parts of Ash out of hiding. That nothing between them, even messy and burning and wanton, could possibly be shameful.

He imagines Eiji kissing him back, his rough hands against Ash’s neck. He would be braver than Ash—he always has been. He would be the one to deepen it, to guide him. He could so easily conjure the fantasy of Eiji pressing the bulk of him against Ash; weighing him down and drawing him closer, the calluses of his hands burning against his skin.

He would be gentle, Ash was sure. Eiji was always gentle with Ash. He wouldn’t take Ash unless he begged for it—and Ash felt only mild guilt to realize he would. He would gladly take anything Eiji would give him; would gladly plead and bargain because it was _Eiji_ and his heart belonged with him.

Eiji was sweet and gentle and kind, and Ash wanted to feel it.

He was beyond saving. Beyond shame.

Ash presses his cheek to his pillow and thinks, _I miss him._

-

“Do you want to get dinner?” Eiji asks one Thursday.

Ash would never admit to it but he had been staring; Eiji had been describing his sleepy hometown with the lighthouse on the coast and the renowned Shinto shrine that brought tourists to their shores.

There was a special quality to Eiji’s stories. Between the way he described the cities and forests and townsfolk and the gentle lilt of his voice, they had almost a fairytale-like quality. Ash got lost in them quite frequently.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah, like, food?” Eiji snorted, expression teasing. Ash felt the rush of heat to his face but grinned nonetheless.

For every soft quality about Eiji Okumura that Ash found himself drawn to, there was cheek and snark that enticed him. They fit together like puzzle pieces, Ash thought. His longing was more than desperate hormones or fanciful musing—it was soulful, carefully matched. A perfect ratio.

“I’m unclear, you’ll need to elaborate.”

Eiji stuck his tongue out and Ash briefly considered grabbing it just to hear him squawk. “I’m going to let you starve,” Eiji begins packing his books, nose turned up as Ash hurriedly follows.

“Wait, please take pity on me,” he begs, his laughter catching on his words. It gets a grin from Eiji who simply tugs on Ash’s sweater once, inviting, before leading them towards the stairs. The librarian bids them goodbye and their shoulders bump as they exit onto the sidewalk. The sky overhead is bright but there are clouds on the horizon and the wind cuts through their heavy coats. They huddle near, shoving and nudging and laughing, as they make their way to the bus stop.

They play _shiritori_ as they wait, Ash haltingly using the few words he’s picked up and making Eiji laugh as he corrects his pronunciation.

He could spend the rest of his life simply trying to make Eiji laugh, Ash thinks.

“Where did you want to get dinner?” he asks instead.

They settle into a seat in the back where no one will pay them any mind. Eiji glances past him out the window, eyes following passerby as he mulls the question over. “I don’t know. We can just get off when we see something,” he suggests. He shrugs and grins as Ash rolls his eyes.

“Ridiculous,” Ash mutters. He bumps Eiji’s head gently with his own and the Japanese student laughs again.

“Don’t do that! You’re hard-headed, you could injure me.”

“ _Injure_ ,” Ash scoffs. His hand finds Eiji’s side and the other man twists against him, trying to get away. Their scuffle is loud but the bus is empty save a woman reading a book and a man fully invested in his walkman. Eiji’s leg somehow ends up tangled with Ash’s and he doesn’t particularly feel inclined to move.

Ash is watching the cityscape through the front windshield when he feels Eiji shift; he’s also staring out the window, dark eyes flitting over store fronts, but his right hand is firmly wrapped around Ash’s. Ash feel dizzy and flush and keeps his eyes carefully averted. He knows his expression would betray too much. Before he can talk himself down, he slots their fingers together where they rest against Ash’s leg. 

“Any ideas?”

“A few,” Eiji murmurs. His voice is nearly lost in the rumble of tires over pavement and the hum of traffic. Ash turns to follow his friend’s gaze and sees nothing but office buildings lining the street.

“There’s no places to eat on this street,” Ash points out.

“Oh,” Eiji jumps and turns, his impossibly dark eyes wide and ears red. “Yeah, dinner.”

Ash feels his throat click as he swallows. He catches his tongue between his teeth and lets himself bask in the picture Eiji paints; flushed with his chestnut eyes gleaming, his darker skin and hair warmed with the afternoon light.

He wonders how warm he would be if Ash pressed his lips to the spot where the sun falls right on his cheek. If he would fluster or or pull him closer.

He dearly wants to learn.

The bus takes a turn and they lean into the sway. Ash realizes he had been staring at Eiji’s mouth. Before he can do something stupid Ash glances at the streets and makes a quick decision.

“My friend’s family owns the diner at the end of the next street,” he mutters.

Eiji nods and never looks away. It makes Ash’s blood buzz—surely Eiji must feel where his fingers shake against his. As the bus slows outside of the stop Ash squeezes their joined hands once before they stand, hands reluctantly falling back to their sides.

The diner isn’t busy at such an odd time of afternoon on a Thursday; Shorter grins and waves when they enter. Nadia is serving the one occupied table and Shorter moves to greet them. Ash catches the way his friend’s eyes widen, just a little, behind his sunglasses when he sees Eiji close behind him.

“You’re the only asshole I know who wears sunglasses indoors,” Ash greets.

“You could have stopped at ‘you’re the only asshole I know’,” Shorter corrects, chiper and unfazed. He looks past Ash at Eiji. “I would like to apologize in advance for how much of a jackass he is.”

Eiji smiles, that gentle disarming one, and Ash sees the way it flusters Shorter as well.

“It’s okay, I already know,” Eiji chirps. He’s the epitome of sunshine and Ash forces himself to frown, lest he give away how much he adores him.

“You can pay for yourself,” Ash huffs over his shoulder, feigning pain when Eiji bumps his back in return.

Shorter leaves them to a booth tucked in the corner, hidden from the one other family in the dining room. 

They never look their way once but Ash is weary of their gaze all the same; do they see the way Ash leans towards Eiji as if he can’t bear to be apart? Do they know how his heart pounds and his blood warms under Eiji’s undivided attention?

Could he be brave enough to meet Eiji halfway, given the chance? Throw aside all the fear instilled in him to stay by his side in more than dark, empty libraries and quiet hole-in-the-wall diners? 

It dawns on him all at once like he’s been dunked in a mountain spring; longing for Eiji and deserving Eiji were not synonymous. 

Eiji smiles at something Shorter says as he drops their food off and Ash watches the gentle curve of it, the hills of his knuckles where his hand curls against the counter and he _aches_ because he could never deserve this. He was not bold or brave or selfless, not in the ways Eiji was. Not in the ways Eiji deserved. It hurt his soul to realize that loving him was not enough. Eiji deserved so much. So much more than Ash could give.

Their meal is slow and quiet, Ash’s mood melancholy as Eiji chatters and laughs and bumps him under the table. Shorter stops by the table often to poke at Ash in one way or another, to pass along an embarrassing memory for Eiji’s delight or gossip about some latest shenanigan at the restaurant. 

Outside the plexiglass they watch how the grey clouds roll in, how they swell and ripple to black, and Ash knows they need to depart before the rain falls. The brewing storm feels a little too fitting for his own internal turmoil. He briefly remembers teaching Eiji ‘kismet’ between the shelves and wanting.

Eiji pulls his cuff back to glance at his watch. Ash stares, sick to his stomach to realize he would lose this.

“I have one more class,” Eiji tells him. He sighs as he watches the few trees visible on the avenue sway with a burst of wind. He doesn’t look particularly excited, and Ash wishes he could take his hand, run his thumb over his knuckles—offer him fucking anything.

But it remains nothing more than a wish. Ash watches Eiji stand and has to remind himself to breathe. 

He’s simply a coward.

“I’ll see you back to campus,” Ash offers. He may be a coward, but he’s desperate for Eiji’s presence—the peace he brings, the heat of him against his side. He’s selfish and a coward but he can’t give it up, can’t give Eiji up. _Not yet, please,_ he begs everything and nothing all at once.

“Do you have any more classes today?” Eiji asks.

“No, but I’d like to walk you back.”

Eiji hums but his eyes are bright, delighted. “Sure.”

When Ash meets Shorter at the front register to pay their bill the older man casts a meaningful look between Ash and where Eiji stands, waiting by the door. He raises his eyebrows and Ash can’t help the way it feels like he’ll shatter under the scrutiny.

“What?”

“You know what,” Shorter snorts. 

“He’s a friend.” Ash hears the way his own voice trembles and breaks. Shorter freezes, expression knowing and sympathetic. It brings Ash’s shame rushing to the surface. 

His friend says nothing else on the subject, simply slides Ash his receipt and nods. “Alright. Come visit again soon. We’ll go out with Alex and the others.”

Ash smiles but he can feel the way it doesn’t quite fit his face. “I will,” he promises.

Ash is thankful for the rush of wind when he steps outside; there’s a distant rumble of thunder and a few flashes overhead and they make their way to the bus stop with the scent of rain already in the air. Ash finds himself unable to make conversation but Eiji doesn’t seem to mind. He’s a constant, soft presence at Ash’s side. He doesn’t force or prod or demand anything of Ash—simply happy to share his company.

Ash keeps circling back, over and over, to how undeserving he is of this man.

He deserves someone who would hold his hand at the bus stop, kiss him goodbye on the quad and proudly proclaim his love for Eiji Okumura—but all Ash can imagine is a dozen bloody noses and his father’s voice through the walls, and knows he can’t do that, can’t be that.

The universe was so fucking cruel, but people were far worse.

The bus is nearly full this time around and Ash carefully keeps his hands in his own lap, leans just a little closer to the window. He pretends not to see the strange expression cross Eiji’s face—crumpled, a little despondent. It hurts but he’s doing it _for_ Eiji, because he deserves fucking _everything_.

They ride in near silence. The other passengers chatter and bicker around them; school kids and couples, giddy in the simplicity of their daily life. It makes Ash’s skin itch. He sees a man slide his arm around a woman’s shoulders and feels jealousy knot, burning and hard, in his gut. He imagines screaming til his throat is raw.

They disembark at the university stop and the lightest spatter of rain has begun to fall, painting the walkways in little splashes of grey under their feet as they rush to the small journalism building. It’s little and squat with only three floors and sits squarely in the shadow of the larger science buildings surrounding it. Ash has never been inside.

Eiji guides them around the corner to a smaller side entrance flanked by overgrown, bright green landscaping that Ash can’t name. Their large green leaves create a little space carefully hidden from view, not yet touched by the seasons. The foliage around them shivers as the storm begins in earnest. The rainfall is chill on Ash’s hair and neck and he’s unsure if he begins shaking from the cold or because his world has shattered and left him hollow. 

Eiji stops them just outside the doors and thunder booms deafeningly overhead. “Thank you,” he half-yells into the din. “For dinner.”

Ash leans in to hear him more clearly and their faces are so close, too close—it's dangerous but Eiji’s eyes are lit up with a glow he wants to see closer, now and forever. He is terrified of what will happen when he walks away. He’s not ready to give this up. 

“Thank you for going with me,” Ash tells him. Eiji doesn’t answer for a long, chilly moment and Ash first thinks that perhaps the storm had drowned out his words.

And then Eiji is against him—a burning spot in the harsh wind and sheet of autumn rain. He places a hand against Ash’s neck and their mouths meet, gentle but firm and wet with rain. It’s a shock to the system and leaves Ash reeling because it’s _all he’s wanted_ and he has never been more sure of his place than when Eiji presses them together chest to hip and hums into the kiss. Ash nearly sobs against him and Eiji opens his mouth, insistent as Ash begins to melt under him.

Someone yells distantly—calling to a friend or shrieking at the rain, and Ash returns to himself.

He can’t do this to Eiji; can’t take everything from him and give him nothing in return. Nothing in this world or the next could be worth causing Eiji pain—fuck what his philosophy professor preached three days a week. There were some labors too great for their payoff. Some pains couldn’t be reconciled, some wounds were left unhealed.

He wouldn’t drag Eiji down with him. He wouldn’t break his heart.

So he quiets the way his soul mourns and pulls back; a jagged, shaky movement that seems to startle Eiji as well. The shorter man stumbles back slightly and there’s such a look of _hurt_ in his eyes as he gazes up at him that it freezes Ash where he stands, turns him to stone. 

He can’t breathe as the rain beats against them. The wind steals the air from his lungs and he nearly sobs again. He disentangles himself before he can convince himself otherwise—can allow himself to be selfish.

Eiji Okumura deserved better than someone terrified to kiss him in public; of that one truth he was sure.

He steps away, mouth working. What words in any language could explain how dear Eiji is to him, how unwilling Ash is to place him in harm's way for something as simple and useless as Ash’s affection? He would do anything for Eiji Okumura, he knew. And that included doing what was best. What hurt, what broke him.

But the words never come. They’re lost, phantom things in the wind and Eiji’s eyes are red-rimmed and Ash is sure he will collapse right there at Eiji’s feet.

“I have to go,” he murmurs as lightning cracks across the grey sky overhead. It highlights Eiji in all the wrong ways; the disappointed furrow of his eyebrows, the unshed tears in his eyes, the hard set to his mouth that Ash is unfamiliar with.

Ash flees.

-

Eiji doesn’t come to the library the next day. Or the day after. A whole week passes, slow and agonizing and empty, and Ash waits at their table; book open under his unseeing eyes, heart in his throat.

He misses Eiji’s questions and laughter and bony elbows in his side when Ash says something sly. He misses another warm presence next to him, soft in the quiet as they worked side by side.

He misses the way Eiji had understood him so deeply, so easily, in ways that Ash was sure no one could have ever done. He misses the way Eiji surprised him with his bravery and wit and endless kindness. How he rolled his eyes every time Ash asked to borrow a pen or eraser or some other mundane thing as an excuse to brush his hand.

He reminds himself it’s for the best, that he could never be what Eiji needed or deserved; but how could losing Eiji’s presence feel like losing half his soul and all still be right with the world? How could he not be at Eiji’s side and the world keep turning? He curses himself, whatever nameless deity sifts the universe through its hands, his own cowardice and yearning and want and desperation.

The sky remains overcast and dreary. It feels fitting.

His heart flutters every time he passes a dark-haired student in a blue blazer; his stomach roils with guilt and loss till he can’t eat. The circles under his eyes grow a little dark as each sleepless night passes at a crawl.

He wishes he could go back to those ten seconds. Could rewrite it, could convince himself; he wants to grab Eiji’s hand and jump back onto the bus and disappear with him forever.

The first weekend without Eiji, Ash spends it with Alex and the usual crowd at a dingy bar with shifty patrons and bottom dollar alcohol that burns on the way down. Alex starts a game of Cut Throat with Cain and Sing, and Ash turns them down to order another shot and watch.

And the world keeps spinning. His friends laugh and buy rounds and argue over the jukebox and Ash knows that, as much as he doesn’t wish it to, the sun will rise again tomorrow.

Shorter snatches the fifth shot from his hands and holds it above his head. “I’m not cutting you off because you could definitely kick my ass, but I want you to know that I disapprove.”

Ash takes the shot glass back, a third of it sloshing on the table, and refuses to entertain Shorter’s mothering. His friend watches him toss the shot back before removing Ash’s glasses from where they sit crooked on his face. “You got vodka on them,” Shorter admonishes, carefully cleaning them on the hem of his shirt.

He sets the round frames back on Ash’s nose but Ash’s vision remains blurry—not enough that he can’t tell Shorter is frowning, however.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Shorter starts—quiet enough that he’s nearly drowned out by the jukebox. Ash shakes his head and looks away. He knows if he begins to peel back the layers he’s constructed, begins to articulate the way he’s fractured with the weight of Eiji’s absence, he won’t be able to stop. He doesn’t know if he could recover.

“I did what was best,” he says, hoping that would be the end of it. Shorter rolls one of the empty shot glasses between his hands and waits, but when Ash doesn’t continue he asks; “But?”

Ash sinks his teeth into his lower lip, feels it swell with blood, to hide the way it trembles. “It still hurts.”

-

He spends the next week with ghosts.

The ghost of Eiji across from him muttering curses in Japanese at his homework, the ghost of his hand in Ash’s at every turn and corner, the ghost of him sitting in the fifth floor aisles as if waiting for Ash to return. He sees him in the nameless dark-haired men in his lectures. In the dining hall. Sitting in the quad or the new computer lab or passing him in the stairwell. A hundred and one afterimages haunting his every step, twisting the knife just a little deeper.

He takes dinner at the Wong family diner, just to get away from campus and home; the diner is just another crack in his armor but he can’t ever say he didn’t feel loved inside it’s walls. That doesn’t stop the ache, but it becomes the lesser of his terrible options.

“You look rough, kid,” Nadia tells him. He responds by stabbing at something on his plate and mimicking what a smile should probably be. He can feel the way it falls flat. Can tell by Nadia’s frown that it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“University keeps me busy,” he shrugs.

Nadia rolls her eyes, her mouth quirking as if his deflection has pained her. It’s the same look she gives Shorter when she knows he’s lying through his teeth.

He barely even flinches when she ruffles his hair.

“Can you bring me my check when you come back?” he calls as she heads towards the kitchen.

“It’s on the house.”

“No, Nadia—”

She pokes her head back between the double doors and points, “It’s on the house and if you touch your wallet we’re going to fight, and you know you’ll lose.”

He slouches back in his seat as she disappears again.

Nadia and Shorter were supportive and kind, more like family than his actual family. Blood of the covenant and water of the womb, and all that. He had Alex and Cain and Sing and so many others that supported him, that treated him like he was something worthy of their kindness, their friendship. He had love and support. He had been doing so well.

He had been doing so well.

-

He doesn’t expect his professor to call him out for an aside the second week Eiji stops showing up, but he supposes he should have seen it coming. The past two weeks he had felt as if he had been drained and stuffed full of cotton or fog—bleeding on everything he touched like a busted inkwell, a right menace. Useless and incompetent with his mind full of what-ifs and second-guesses.

“Is everything alright?” his professor asks as Ash approaches his desk. His gentle tone makes Ash feel like his nerves have been dragged through hot coals and torn wide. He wants to scream and curse and wipe that blatant pity off his face with the sheer jagged rage he’s been keeping inside since a stormy Thursday afternoon two weeks ago.

“I don’t understand why you’re asking, sir,” he answers, measured and careful. He doesn’t owe him a damn thing.

“Your work just seems… lacking, lately. I’m used to much more from you. And you've been turning in assignments late.”

Ash lets his gaze slide to the chalkboard, still covered in his professors messy scrawl on ethics. His heart is pounding and he feels the disappointment settle in his bones—the thought that now, even in this, he’s not enough. 

When Ash doesn’t answer right away, he continues, “You’ve seemed troubled lately.”

“I’m fine,” Ash snaps.

“It’s alright to not be.” His professor pushes back—suggests really, as if he already knows that Ash is concealing the truth. “It’s alright to be vulnerable, too. It’s alright to open up and let yourself be uncomfortable. We don’t grow as people if we don’t.”

His words are soft and carefully chosen and they bite at Ash’s core, light something burning and raw inside him that he doesn’t recognize.

“What is your point?” Ash asks—means to bite back, but it escapes him as a whisper in the deathly silent lecture hall.

He swears he feels ghosts at his back, breathing down his neck, taking his hand.

“You don’t need permission—to be uncomfortable or vulnerable. To struggle with something. You would be inhuman otherwise, if things were perfect all the time.”

“I wasn’t looking for permission for anything, sir. I’m fine.”

“Alright,” his professor raises his blond brows, leaning back in his seat. It creaks and the sound is piercing. “I look forward to seeing your midterm project.”

Ash knows a dismissal when he hears one.

He wants to be angry. Furious, even. He wants to scoff and complain and rage against _something_ but the words stick in him like wild burrs in the summer. The idea of vulnerability, of exploring those little broken pieces of himself without permission. That he didn’t need permission—from anyone.

Was that what he had been waiting for, he wonders. Permission? To be _allowed_ to be Aslan Jade and not the spectre that fit what was needed around him?

He turns his professors’ well-meaning lecture over in his mind as he lays in bed that night, clutching his book a little too tightly. The lines of text in his book blur and sway and he wipes at his face with frustrated swipes. He sets his glasses aside and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes till he sees stars.

He wants to be worthy, but it was so fucking terrifying. All he had ever known was terror. Had seen how it was used to keep you in line; and wasn’t that just the problem? Wasn’t this—denying Eiji, denying himself—wasn’t that what every bastard on the planet would want? They didn’t even need to terrorize him anymore. He fucking did it to himself.

Being vulnerable, being scared and bold—was there some duality there? Was it damning to be fearful, or was it just human? Just a single piece of the experience. A single fraction of the whole, a single passing shadow. Was he damned, or simply a stupid human clumsily navigating the wasteland he’d been thrown into?

Were they not they same? 

Could he be terrified and still deserving?

-

Shorter’s behind the counter at Chang Dai when Ash drags himself in that second weekend, a ragged, confused mess; it’s after his classes and he’s desperate not to return home just yet, but the library makes him feel as if he’s been drowned at sea, thrown to the rocks, and he needs to breathe.

He feels as if he’s at a crossroads—or maybe he has been for a while, and was finally taking note of all the branching paths, all the endless possibilities. If he was willing to fight for them.

“Was wondering when you’d visit again,” Shorter glances up from the till as Ash approaches and Shorter looks stricken for a fleeting moment. “You look rough, Angel,” he whispers and it sounds pleading— _’please realize what you’re doing to yourself’_ Ash hears under it. Shorter looks pained. “What happened?”

Ash sinks onto a stool at the front, presses his palms to the cool laminate of the counter, and takes a deep breath. There’s a few couples in the booths and a family of four by the door. He feels their presence like stones weighing down his lungs but he can’t hold this mourning by himself, not anymore. He doesn’t want to.

He wants Eiji.

“He kissed me,” he whispers back. “I ran.”

Shorter rests his crossed arms on the countertop, leaning close. He studies Ash for a long moment that feels like eternity, the hard glint of his eyes serious, but Ash wants to meet this head-on. Wants to understand how his fear doesn’t shackle him, doesn’t have to be a life-sentence. How he could hold it in his hands and defy it.

“Do you regret it?”

Ash carefully pushes his hair behind the earpieces of his glasses, focusing on the curve of their rims instead of his shame. “Every day.”

“You have to tell him,” Shorter tells him, quick and firm. Desperate—as if he understands the way Ash has crumbled and floundered, held back by ghosts he’s long since left behind.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admits. And that’s the true terror; the idea that, no matter how he fights and begs and bleeds for what he wants, that maybe he will only be what he has always ever been.

“Do you think you could live with yourself if you don’t try?”

Ash thinks of Eiji’s grin—cutting, beautiful—the light in his eyes when Ash says something stupid. The way he taps his pencil when he thinks and how he pronounces Ash’s name in Japanese, the syllables drawn out and lovely. How Ash’s own heart and soul seemed to know this man, seemed to love him before Ash even had realized. How his skin burned against Ash’s own like two stars meeting at their core. 

He desperately wants to burn.

-

Ash waits outside the journalism building, hidden in that little brick and withering alcove Eiji had guided him to. The thick leaves have begun to wilt with the encroaching winter. 

He seats himself on the cool concrete, presses his palms to his warm face, and prays to every god he’s ever read about that this isn’t beyond saving. That he might still be worthy—might still be able to prove himself worthy. Of forgiveness, of Eiji, of his own vulnerability. Of knowing that his fears aren’t a weakness. That’s he’s more. Can _be_ more. 

Students filter past, in and out and glancing at Ash, making him twist his fingers with nerves— but none of them are Eiji.

He’s sure Eiji isn’t coming; class has already started. The campus walkways have thinned away to near nothing and the quad is empty except a few studying in little, bright clusters. The chatter has dropped and the wind picks up again and Ash resigns to the thought that Eiji wouldn’t be showing. That Ash had missed him, somehow. That he wouldn’t be able to seek him out and apologize and beg and make amends. 

Ash stares at where his hands quake against his knees.

He’ll come back, Ash decides. He’ll wait every day if he needs to.

He rises to his feet, adjusting his glasses, trying to quell his troubled heart— “Ash?”

Eiji’s voice is so soft that for a moment Ash is sure he’s imagined it. His longing manifested into something near tangible, something desperate and pathetic. But he turns and Eiji is there; pink-cheeked and winded and clutching the strap of his book bag like he’s been running.

“I thought…” Ash starts but the words fail him. His stupid thoughts are jumbled and rickety and he wants to embrace Eiji but instead he hovers ten feet away, shaking and confused and ridiculous.

“I’m late for class. Why are you here?” Eiji bites out—but his eyes are wounded as he watches Ash counts his breaths, try to organize his words. Even now, angry with Ash, he’s patient and kind and giving Ash far too many chances.

He won’t squander this, won’t take it for granted.

He can be better. He can be vulnerable—he can do anything, whatever Eiji needs.

He wants to be someone Eiji is proud of, proud to be with.

He settles for, “I’m sorry” and his voice breaks. He doesn’t know where to begin; the family history, the fear beaten into his bones, the shame they instilled in him, his fear of dragging Eiji down with him. The lingering fear that he’s _bad_ and _not enough_ and he’d taint Eiji with all the little things Ash has been told he is. 

He decides in a flicker of bravery. “It’s worth it, I think.”

Eiji’s eyes narrow and his head tilts—perhaps it’s the last thing he had expected Ash to blurt out. “What?”

“You asked me, when we were talking about my research paper; if pain made the human experience worth it? I said I didn’t know.”

Understanding seems to dawn on Eiji and his expression smooths into something forgiving, something soft that Ash will never feel worthy of in a million years and a thousand lifetimes. But god does he _want_ to be.

“I think it’s worth it.” He drops his gaze, finds the words come more simply when he hides the shine in his own eyes. “I think you’re worth it.”

And then suddenly Eiji is there, closing the distance between them with wide strides as if there had never been that uncrossable chasm in the first place. He takes Ash’s hand, presses his forehead to Ash’s shoulder—all the tension in his body seems to drain away as he sighs against Ash. “You’re a headache.”

Ash brings his free arm up to carefully wrap around Eiji’s wide shoulders, holding him close. “I have to agree.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“It’s okay, I’m mad at me, too.” He presses his cheek to Eiji’s hair and sighs as well; he’s heat and brilliance and sunshine on chilly autumn days. The air around them sways and Ash pays it no mind because Eiji is giggling into his collar and their bodies bump with the quakes at their relief and it’s enough. It’s finally enough.

-

“Welcome back,” Shorter crows as Ash and Eiji settle in an empty booth—their empty both, Ash thinks. Eiji sits across from him, vibrant and warm in his red sweater and gentle smile, and Ash knows he’s obvious with his stare when he hears Shorter cackle.

“Hey, Shorter,” Eiji returns.

“The usual?”

“Please,” Ash sighs. Shorter plants his hand against the side of Ash’s head and shoves, darting out of reach when Ash makes a grab for him. He’s betting that Ash won’t leave Eiji’s side and Ash finds himself unembarrassed that it’s true.

He never wants to separate from Eiji ever again, if he is completely transparent.

Ash settles back in his seat and finds Eiji staring; his smile is delicate and fond and cuts Ash right through. Before he can put words to the way his chest tightens under the attention, the sheer way he feels _thankful_ , Eiji murmurs, “I missed you.”

Eiji’s hands rest gently against the table top and Ash doesn’t let himself dwell as he wraps his own fingers around Eiji’s wide palm, bringing his lips to Eiji’s autumn-roughened knuckles. There’s chatter all around them, rising and falling and flowing with a dozen conversations, but Ash’s heart can only focus on the surprise on Eiji’s face. The beautiful way his eyes light up and crinkle at the corners.

“I missed you too,” Ash tells him, impossibly soft because that’s what Eiji makes him want to be.

Eiji watches him for a moment before his expression shifts, gaze falling to where their hands are clasped on the tabletop. “You’re shaking,” he breathes, sounding winded and lost.

And Ash can feel it. How every inch of him trembles, just the slightest, and how his breath feels uneven and almost uncontrollable. The diner is busy and nerve-wrecking; too many eyes and too many possibilities, Ash hyper aware of each one. But nothing was worth trading for the way Eiji had looked at Ash just a moment before, delighted and smitten.

“I’m terrified of this, all of it,” Ash admits. He keeps his eyes on their hands, tightens his hold. “But I want this. I want to earn this.” He swallows once, nearly choking before he pushes on. “I want to be worthy,” he confides.

Eiji holds him back just as firmly. “You don’t have to _earn_ people. I care about you, so we will work through it. Together.” He switches their hold to press a kiss to Ash’s hand in turn. “You have always been worthy,” he whispers. Ash feels completely unmoored, like a ship lost in an unforgiving sea—surely the gods would be demanding repayment for such a lucky draw.

Shorter clatters a pot of tea and two cups to the table, making a noise of exasperation but looking no less gleeful. “We _get it_ , you’re in love, quit rubbing it in the face of all us single people.”

Ash flusters and chokes on his words, turning to glare. Eiji laughs so hard he snorts and Ash is sure his face is pathetically red. He gestures at the busy dining room behind Shorter with his free hand. “Don’t you have other tables?”

A few patrons glance at them, but Ash finds it easier to pay it no mind when Eiji squeezes his hand and Shorter slaps him on the shoulder with a good-natured, familiar laugh.

“No,” Shorter smiles and lies. Like a liar.

There’s something perfect about it; the grey autumn day and Shorter being an antagonizing bastard and Eiji laughing so hard he has to pour himself a cup of tea to calm his coughing fit at their banter. Ash leans back against the old upholstered booth and watches the two pass jibes back and forth. It feels like peace.

It feels right. It feels like enough.

**Author's Note:**

> soooo what major do y'all think ash and eiji would be tho
> 
> also, i wrote another ending to this-not different just a different scene that didn't fit with the tone of everything else, so i fully expect to write a small "second chapter"/second part of this au specifically because that i loved that scene and i refuse to let it go so lol
> 
> follow me @niadoesweeb on twitter because one day i'll post again lmao


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